Picking Up The Pieces by Grundy  

Secrets Will Out

Egalmoth snorted softly in amusement. He didn’t know who Enerdhil thought he was fooling, but it certainly wasn’t him. At least, not anymore.

He had initially seen no reason to doubt that the fabric samples requested in various shades of grey were for what the man said they were for – presentation of a new jewel. It hadn’t struck him immediately as odd that Enerdhil had been so tight-lipped about who it was for.

Egalmoth had assumed it would be for either Princess Itarillë or Queen Elenwë. He was known to the city to be on good terms with the royal ladies, so he understood perfectly if Enerdhil intended it to be a surprise and was reluctant to tell him lest he spoil it. (Accidentally of course. Egalmoth would never intentionally ruin such a moment for another craftsman. But one never knew what might set the princess thinking, and she was quite perceptive once her attention was drawn to something.)

It made sense, even. The Gates of Summer were nearly upon them, and the festival was a natural time to present such a gift.

But this…

Enerdhil had sent a commission for new formal clothes – two sets. Matching. In one of the greys he had selected from the samples. What’s more, in contrast to nearly everyone else ordering new clothes, Enerdhil had said there was no rush – it was perfectly fine to take his time. With the holiday only days away, every other person in the city was in a swivet to have their new finery completed in time. That was what had made him take notice. It had only taken a few moments after that to place what was familiar about the order.

If Enerdhil didn’t suppose Egalmoth would recognize the measurements, he was a fool. Well, one set of measurements. (The second set he didn’t know. Under any other circumstances, that would be driving him to distraction.) Hadn’t he made all the boy’s clothes after his arrival in Ondolindë? Not to mention most of the ones he knew perfectly well the Moles had ordered over the years and held in storage against their prince’s return?

There was only one logical conclusion, remarkable as it might be. Egalmoth hadn’t the foggiest who the lady was, but he knew for certain there was one. He was astonished that the Moles had kept utter silence on the matter - and perhaps a bit envious. The Heavenly Arch wouldn’t have managed to keep something so juicy to themselves for more than a few days. But so far he could figure, the Moles had been sitting on this for close two weeks at least.

Thus it was that he found himself in a dilemma.

He ought to inform Princess Itarillë. As Prince Lomion’s kinswoman and closest confidante, not only would she expect to be told of his return and marriage, she might have some idea as to the lady. While he had no intention of telling the rest of the city, Egalmoth certainly wouldn’t mind being one of the first to know just who had finally managed to attract the prince. (Not only did he enjoy hearing news first for its own sake, he also wouldn’t mind knowing who best to watch for reactions whenever it became public.)

Unfortunately, if he shared his conclusion with the princess, he’d all but certainly be party to interrupting the prince’s honeymoon. Itarillë Turukaniel had many fine qualities, but save in her dealings with children, patience was not generally numbered among them. In this case, he was certain her reaction would be to march directly to the House of the Mole immediately.

He had often found the young prince irritating or even exasperating, but not to a level where he was willing to inflict that on him. It would surely put an end to any hope of ever mending bridges with the boy. He doubted the new Princess of the Mole would be best pleased with him either. Offending someone he might not even know – and who would soon have considerable patronage in her gift – did not seem like the best course.

Besides, grey seemed encouraging. Perhaps Prince Lomion was finally willing to let that aggravating insistence on black drop. He doubted he was the only one hoping so. Not only would the rest of the Moles thank him for it, the dyeworkers of the Heavenly Arch detested having to regularly work with black on the scale required by house colors.

Egalmoth considered his options. It was unlikely he would persuade Enerdhil to come clean, but it was worth a try. Particularly as if his suspicions were correct, he’d prefer to have more than just the grey outfits requested at the ready. The House of the Heavenly Arch wouldn’t be caught without a suitable wedding present. Grey might do for ordinary occasions, but not for a festival…

The only problem was it was impossible to make something appropriate for the lady without having any idea who she might be, much less her taste or what she looked like. He could hardly tell even his most skilled designers to simply guess when all they had to go on was measurements.

There was nothing for it. He reached for his stationary with a sigh to compose a note requesting Enerdhil’s presence. He’d simply have to persuade him somehow. And then make absolutely certain he didn’t let so much as a hint slip to his assistants what they were working on or for who.

---

Enerdhil was ready to send someone to Alqualondë to drag their dilatory steward back whether Aranwë was minded to return or not. This was too much.

Judging by his co-conspirators’ expressions, he wasn’t the only one about to report trouble.

“Wing has definitely concluded there is something afoot,” Mastacarmë said glumly. “Lady Califiriel says both their cook and their steward have been pointed in their questions the past few days, and while neither Fountain nor Golden Flower’s cooks know, it certainly sounds like they suspect. I don’t think our young allies can do much more to screen us at this point.”

Enerdhil looked to Elemmakil, who had entered last, wearing a thunderous expression.

“There’s been some loose lips,” he told them. “I’ve just set a few knees knocking, but they’re not the first this week or even today. It’s only a matter of time before someone slips up in front of the wrong person and gives the whole game away. I don’t think there’s anyone of age in the House who doesn’t know at this point.”

Enerdhil took a deep breath.

“Lord Egalmoth knows.”

Two shocked looks greeted him.

“You told him?” Elemmakil demanded. “The Heavenly Arches are the worst gossips in the city! You might as well have posted a notice in the Square of the King!”

“Actually, that might have been more subtle,” Mastacarmë reflected. “Most of the city ignores those.”

“I only confirmed what he already knew about the prince,” Enerdhil sighed. “Not that I had much choice when he’d already guessed. If I’d denied it, he would probably have asked someone in the Wing or Golden Flower next! The only part that was news to him was our princess. Thankfully he was startled enough that he saw the virtue of holding his tongue.”

“More like he doesn’t want to have to explain it to the Queen or the Princess of the Wing any more than we do,” Mastacarmë chuckled. “Here, have a sip of this.”

He poured a glass of whatever cordial he’d brought to fortify everyone’s nerves this time. Enerdhil discovered it had a kick to it, but was rather tasty.

“What gave it away?” Elemmakil wanted to know.

“Egalmoth recognized the prince’s measurements, and could account for the matching set no way except that the prince had not returned alone. There was nothing for it but to tell him, lest he imagine something more scandalous. Were it not for our princess having her clothes made elsewhere until now, he’d likely have worked that part out on his own as well.”

“I hadn’t realized Heavenly Arch was so observant, or I’d have told you to hold off,” Elemmakil said ruefully. “How did he take the news?”

“Astonished,” Enerdhil replied. “Relieved that it won’t fall to him to break the news to anyone else. Oh, and gleefully plotting an entire new wardrobe for Princess Tindomiel. He was giving orders to have the ladies Tasariel and Califiriel brought in for ‘last minute fittings’ as I left and composing a letter to dispatch to Prince Morifinwë.”

Privately, he doubted that would go well. Lord Egalmoth had been no friend of the House of Fëanáro even before the Nirnaeth. But at least Egalmoth wouldn’t be driving him or anyone else in the Mole to distraction.

“Good, that means he’ll be too busy to gossip until after the festival,” Elemmakil snorted.

“Gentlemen, drink up,” Mastacarmë recommended. “We may well make it to the holiday in peace after all.”

They were just clinking their glasses together, part toast and part hope, when it became clear they had been overly optimistic.

---

Itarillë had long been an early riser, but her husband was not. She always breakfasted with him, no matter how late he might sleep, but she wasn’t usually this impatient about it.

She suspected he was taking his time rising this morning just to vex her. He might not sense her as acutely as most elves would their mate, but he still knew she was agitated about something.

When he finally appeared in the doorway to the room where they usually took their morning meal, making a production of rubbing sleep from his eyes, she was sure of it.

“Aggravating man,” she murmured.

“And a cheerful good morning to you too, my love,” he replied, kissing her just long enough to be distracting before he moved toward his own chair. “What has you all aflutter?”

“A collection of oddities that’s set me thinking,” she replied. “I’ve been waiting to talk them over with you. I want your opinion.”

Tuor sighed as he seated himself.

“It must be odd indeed for you to have ordered all my favorites,” he said, glancing over the table.

He helped himself to the blueberry muffins all the same, and waited patiently.

“Had you heard that the Mole’s cook has been picking Hendor’s brain about Tinwë’s likes and dislikes?” she asked, starting with the simplest part.

Tuor shook his head, setting several melon slices on her plate.

“No, but the only odd thing I can see there is that I hadn’t heard she or her parents were expected any time soon. Tas and Cali came back from their latest jaunt on time and without her, so I expect she’s gone to her parents or to Thingol for the holiday.”

Itarillë tried not to pout.

The Birth of Flowers and the Gates of Summer were two of her favorite festivals, and Tindomiel hadn’t been in the city for either of them the past several years. She understood that her great-granddaughter had to rotate holidays among her kin – besides the desire to spend the occasional holiday at her parents’ home, Tindomiel also had Tirion, Neldoreth, Alqualondë, and Valimar to placate, not to mention her ainurin kin. But Itarillë had been hopeful that perhaps this year…

She knew perfectly well that the uneasy peace between her father on the one hand and Tindomiel, Elrond, and Celebrían on the other was partly to blame. But she’d believed Tinwë at least had decided to let bygones be bygones. She certainly didn’t hesitate to visit the House of the Wing or the House of the Golden Flower (and the Fountain.) She might easily have spent the holiday in the Wing. Ammë would have loved to see her as well.

“Exactly – why ask about her now, when she’s not in the city?” she persisted.

Lómion’s cook might have enquired about Tinwë’s tastes at any time – even at a time when the girl was present to ask directly.

“He likely wants to have a head start on being ready the next time they’re in town,” Tuor shrugged. “It must be a bit boring for him right now, what with the Moles not really putting on much in the way of festivities this year.”

That was true, but she didn’t like having to admit it. Aranwë hadn’t trusted Enerdhil to supervise that  much without losing either his patience or his temper. As a result, most Moles would be either making merry with other Houses or visiting outside the city. There would be only a modest feast for those who did not wish to look elsewhere to occupy the kitchen staff.

“Tindomiel might have at least stopped in to see us before going on for the holiday,” Itarillë pouted. “She may still be unhappy with Atto, but I don’t see why she shouldn’t visit Ammë. Or us!”

She didn’t see enough of her grandson, his lovely wife, or their daughter.

“Cheer up, love,” Tuor said. “If she’s avoiding Ondolindë at present, I suspect it’s more to do with that trick she played on Rog last time she was here. I wouldn’t have said giving him time to contemplate his revenge is the best plan, but it seems to be what she’s going with.”

Itarillë sighed. Ardamírë hadn’t been even half as mischievous in his childhood as Tinwë was as an adult. She said as much.

“Our son seems more the exception than the rule,” Tuor chuckled. “Probably to do with the times. I suspect it’s a bit easier to get into trouble regularly when you don’t have to worry that trouble will kill you.”

“Anariel never seems troubled,” she replied tartly.

Tinwë’s older sister’s brand of trouble was as a rule the sort that would happily kill her, but it had never yet bothered her.

“Anariel’s another exception from all accounts,” Tuor sighed. “Just in the other direction. And her brothers aren’t much better. Thankfully, Tindomiel seems more in keeping with what we’ve been told about Arwen.”

That was another unpleasant thought – it rankled Itarillë no end that she would never lay eyes on Arwen. At least she had been able to meet Elros and his children on visits to Elenna! But there was no such chance with Elrond’s oldest girl. She had chosen mortality on the far side of a Sea Itarillë was barred from crossing. The closest she could come was inveigling Ardamírë to let her sail with him on occasion.

“You are remarkably out of sorts this morning,” Tuor said with a slight frown, pushing the cinnamon pastries he knew she enjoyed best toward her, and following them with the apple compote she liked. “Have you spent the entire time since sunup brooding on things that vex you?”

“No,” she replied with dignity. “I’ve been trying to make sense of several oddities, and you sidetracked me after I told you the first one. Also, your theory that Tinwë is avoiding our fair city has a slight defect –she was seen at the southwest gate a month ago. And not with Laurefindil’s girls - several days after they returned.”

“Oh?” Tuor asked, aggravatingly calm as he buttered his second muffin. “On her own?”

“No,” she said slowly. “With Anairon. If not for his presence, I’d have asked Rog if there were any further unexplained events in his workshop.”

Tuor grinned, knowing as well as she did that her youngest uncle was hopelessly honest, worse than useless if their granddaughter’s goal had been another prank. Tindomiel was trying her hardest to make her best friend a better accomplice, but thus far it was proving slow going.

“Testing the waters to see if it’s calm enough to show her face?” Tuor suggested.

“In which case, she might have stayed,” Itarillë pointed out. “Rog may have all manner of interesting ideas to even the score, but she must realize he’d save it until after the festival.”

Rog regarded the ongoing prank war with Tindomiel as private entertainment, so he wouldn’t strike back publicly. Half the city would find out about it within the day when he did, but the prank itself would be confined to the Wing or the Hammer. He’d also been very good at keeping the daughters of the Golden Flower out of it, for which both Itarillë and Laurefindil were thankful. Tasariel got into scrapes enough without such encouragement.

“Odd of her not to at least stop in to say hello to us, don’t you think?” she persisted.

Tuor shrugged, doubtless able to come up with theories he knew she would either dismiss or not wish to credit.

“Is this the last of your oddities, or are there more?”

“Egalmoth has an urgent commission he has been unusually quiet about,” she said. “I tried to pry it out of him yesterday, and he changed the subject immediately.”

“I don’t think he’d be Tinwë’s first choice if she wanted new clothes,” Tuor laughed. “Doesn’t she usually go to your father’s cousin in Tirion? He definitely wouldn’t be her first choice for assistance with pranks.”

“I don’t know that the two are connected, only that there are quite a number of small oddities at once,” she protested. “And that has me thinking…”

She stopped in astonishment as something out the window caught her eye. Surely not. It couldn’t be.

It was. That was Lomion’s standard flying above the Mole!

The next moment, an exceedingly confused Tuor was watching his wife bolt out the door.

By the time he reached the window, the flag was no longer up.

---

“I don’t know what you were thinking, any of you,” Enerdhil told the two offenders furiously. “Did I, or any other officer of this House, instruct you to raise the prince’s banner?”

“No,” the younger of the two ventured when it became obvious his companion was too startled at the normally mild-mannered jewelsmith somehow managing to be more intimidating than Lord Aranwë at his worst. “But the prince is in residence…”

“And was not prepared to receive the rest of the city as yet!” Enerdhil snapped, his patience stretched to the breaking point. “Let us hope no one noticed your moment of foolishness.”

“Sir?”

He glanced toward the door.

Another nervous youngster was peeking in, clearly torn between not wanting to interrupt the telling-off his housemates were getting, and feeling unequal to whatever situation had sent him in search of the acting steward in the first place.

“Yes?” Enerdhil asked tiredly.

By the time the prince and princess emerged, he was going to need a holiday of his own. A long one. Somewhere peaceful, with no troublesome princes or princesses underfoot.

“Sir, it’s Princess Itarillë…”

Enerdhil closed his eyes and counted ten. Of the entire city, she would be the one to notice the banner in the scant two minutes it had been aloft.

“Sir, I don’t think we can put her off much longer.”

The two at fault quailed under the glare Enerdhil gave them.

“If the prince is disturbed, I will share with him whose idea it was,” he announced direly before stalking out toward the main staircase.

It was as well he’d headed for the stairs, for he found Elemmakil doing his level best to dissuade Princess Itarillë from charging into the prince’s rooms.

“Princess! What an unexpected surprise,” he said, doing his best to sound as if this were a normal day, and her appearance not wholly unwelcome. “To what do we owe the honor?”

“Enerdhil,” she said reprovingly. “I saw the banner. Where is he?”

He ruthlessly squashed the guilt at having to disappoint her.

“My deepest apologies, Princess. Some of our young folks were in holiday spirits and got a bit carried away. I was just reproving them.”

Itarillë gave him a sharp look.

“So Lomion is not back?” she asked, focusing on him sharply enough that he didn’t dare attempt an untruth.

He fell back on politeness.

“I’m afraid the prince is not at home, Princess,”

For a split second, he thought it had worked. Then Itarillë advanced.

“Since when is Lomion not at home to me?” she demanded sharply.

“The prince is not at home,” Enerdhil repeated stolidly. “I am certain you will be the first to know when he is.”

He wasn’t sure how the standoff would have ended had Prince Tuor not appeared.

“Good day, Enerdhil, Elemmakil,” he said pleasantly. “My love, I hate to interrupt, but your mother just sent word your grandparents are expected shortly. The High King is with them, and your aunt Galadriel is also among the party.”

Princess Itarillë looked as startled as Enerdhil felt, though doubtless for slightly different reasons.

“Oh, for the love of Nienna,” she murmured. “Enerdhil, my cousin may not be at home but I imagine he will also appreciate a warning – our grandmother will not be so easily put off, and she will certainly not accept him not being at home.”

Tuor offered her his arm politely, but she demurred.

“I’ll go directly to Ammë,” she said. “Be a love and make sure the Wing is in good order? Ask the staff to ready the guest rooms – at the very least we’ll be asked to host Aunt Galadriel.”

She looked to be composing a task list already on her way out.

Tuor gave Enerdhil and Elemmakil a measuring look.

“I didn’t mention it to Rillë, but you’ll also want to warn Maeglin his parents are with them,” he advised.

He left before either of them could regain their tongues.